er and a torment to me that a girl so slight, so trifling as she, should have lived her life in London, while mine has been all at Briar; but a consolation, also— for if she can thrive there, then might not I, with all my talents, thrive better?
So I tell myself, while describing her duties. Again I see her eye my gown and slippers and now, recognising the pity in her gaze as well as the scorn, I think I blush. I say, ''Your last mistress, of course, was quite a fine lady? She would laugh, I suppose, to look at me!''
My voice is not quite steady. But if there is a bitterness to my tone, she does not catch it. Instead, ''Oh, no, miss,'' she says. ''She was far too kind a lady. And besides, she always said that grand clothes weren''t worth buttons; but that it was the heart inside them that counts.''
She looks so taken with this—so taken in, by her own fiction—so innocent, not sly—I sit a moment and regard her in silence. Then I take her hand again. ''You are a good girl, Susan, I think,'' I say. She smiles and looks modest. Her fingers move in mine.
''Lady Alice always said so, miss,'' she says.
''Did she?''
''Yes, miss.''
Then she remembers something. She pulls from me, reaches into her pocket, and brings out a letter. It is folded, sealed, directed in an
affected feminine hand; and of course comes from Richard. I hesitate, then take it—rise and walk, unfold it, far from her gaze.